 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
TO SARAH
The hour in which we met has come again,
When one more year is added to our woes,
One other wearied round of deadening pain
With darkened tide, still grimly onward flows.
When one more year is added to our woes,
One other wearied round of deadening pain
With darkened tide, still grimly onward flows.
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Though friends are gone, though weeds grow o'er the grave
Of those who loved us when our hopes were green—
Though tempests round our young sweet flowers rave,
To cause a curse that they should e'er have been,
Of those who loved us when our hopes were green—
Though tempests round our young sweet flowers rave,
To cause a curse that they should e'er have been,
Yet still we are, and still we yet must be,
Poor breathing monuments of love and wrong,
Bright chilly icebergs on a summer sea,
Which melt beneath the sunbeam of a song.
Poor breathing monuments of love and wrong,
Bright chilly icebergs on a summer sea,
Which melt beneath the sunbeam of a song.
And why is woe our unavailing lot?
Why stays the arrow from the bow of Fate?
Oh! could this world but say that we are not,
And that our space of life is desolate—
Why stays the arrow from the bow of Fate?
Oh! could this world but say that we are not,
And that our space of life is desolate—
And could we soar from this relentless sphere,
To untried worlds, which may be yet more chill,
The change were pleasure, though the damning tear
Should flow more deeply from its shore of ill.
To untried worlds, which may be yet more chill,
The change were pleasure, though the damning tear
Should flow more deeply from its shore of ill.
But worlds like this were never made for thee,
Thou never could'st have once been formed to die,
There is a spirit-stirring ecstasy,
Within thy soul, formed for eternity.
Thou never could'st have once been formed to die,
There is a spirit-stirring ecstasy,
Within thy soul, formed for eternity.
The lingering sickness and the mouldering wane,
Which hover o'er our fairest jubilee,
Depicted on thy face in living pain,
Were never made, my dearest one, for thee.
Which hover o'er our fairest jubilee,
Depicted on thy face in living pain,
Were never made, my dearest one, for thee.
Then let us haste from this unhallowed scene,
To that which ne'er can rival this in woe;
Where chilling death can never intervene
With fears like those, alas, which now we know—
To that which ne'er can rival this in woe;
Where chilling death can never intervene
With fears like those, alas, which now we know—
Oh! be it ever ill or blessedness,
If but beside thee there is still delight
To watch o'er thee in joy or in distress,
So thou wilt never wing from me thy flight.
If but beside thee there is still delight
To watch o'er thee in joy or in distress,
So thou wilt never wing from me thy flight.
Boston Statesman, March 8, 1827
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |